'Ruby, my dear, I wonder if you would mind showing Mr Peach what I mean?' Quaint grabbed Peach's right hand and thrust it down hard onto the table, splaying his fingers. Peach winced, but his attention was wisely on Ruby, not Quaint.
'Love to, Mr Q,' Ruby said, unbuttoning the fastenings on the front of her dress. Not removing her gaze from the landlord, she slid her nimble fingers down into the shadows, and produced a slender silver dagger from a hidden scabbard in her cleavage. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, Ruby flipped the knife up into the air, catching it perfectly by its point on her fingertip. Then, holding her palm flat with the knife upon it, she gently flexed her fingers, and the knife rocked in a see-saw motion before rotating in a complete circle. Peach's eyes were mesmerised by the display, as the knife almost took on a life of its own. With a deft flick upwards, Ruby tossed the knife high into the air once again. It fell in slow motion; landing with a dull thud in between Peach's outstretched fingers, a fraction of an inch from his skin. That was the second time that night that Ruby had nearly caused Peach to swallow his tongue. The landlord watched the knife like a man entranced as it swayed like a metronome half an inch into the wooden table.
Quaint's booming voice snapped him back into the room. 'Miss Marstrand here was trained by a remarkably gifted German fellow named Viktor Dzierzanowski, arguably the best knife-smith in the modern world, and a favourite of Prince Albert himself, I understand,' Quaint said, absentmindedly picking at his fingernails. 'Ruby was Viktor's prize pupil, and she can skewer a bluebottle at twenty paces.'
Ruby shrugged, coyly pretending to hide her embarrassment. 'Well, that's awfully sweet of you to say, Mr Q, but I have to admit, I am a bit rusty. Perhaps Mr Peach would appreciate a more…practical demonstration. Tell me, what shall I aim for -his ears or his balls?' she asked innocently.
The nervous barman nearly fainted on the spot. His forehead was swamped with a sudden flurry of fresh, speckled perspiration and his lower lip quivered like a fish on an angler's line.
'W-W-What did she j-j-just say?' he stammered.
'Ears or balls, Mr Peach, ears or balls!' Quaint thundered. He pretended to mull over the question, closely inspecting the man's ears, before glancing briefly down at his already tenderised groin. 'Well, he's got two of each, so from where I'm sitting they're much of a much-ness, my dear. Perhaps Mr Peach has a preference.'
'Hmm,' Ruby said, as she plucked her knife from the table. She held it up and squinted, aiming at Peach's head. 'The earlobes look a bit more of a challenge, don't you think, Mr Q? Look at them tiny little things. Like little rat ears, aren't they? But I might miss them altogether and catch him straight in the eye, and you know how much mess that makes.'
Quaint enjoyed watching the colour drain from the landlord's face. 'Don't remind me! You remember that poor fellow who accosted you backstage in Belgium?'
'Gosh, yes,' giggled Ruby. 'I threw the knife so hard it embedded itself in the poor man's skull and no one could pull it out! The funeral was a nightmare. They had a devil of a time finding a coffin to fit him.'
'What?' squawked Peach, more of a bystander in this conversation.
'Perhaps the testicles would be a much safer bet then, my dear,' said Quaint. 'There'll be a lot less blood, and at least there's a one in three chance of hitting something painful.' Quaint tapped the landlord on his shoulder, and the man leapt in fear. 'I notice you aren't a married man, Mr Peach. Not planning on having children then? That's probably for the best.'
Peach's skin was now so pale that it was practically transparent.
'All right, all right, man!' he said, slamming his hands on the table, petrified to the point of collapse. 'I don't owe Hawkspear nothing. Just call her off, and I'll tell you anything you want to know, I swear!'
'Splendid,' smiled Quaint. 'You see how reasonable you can be with the correct level of motivation, Mr Peach?' He rocked back in his chair and linked his fingers together, delighted with his powers of persuasion. 'Do tell me all-and leave out not one scrap of detail.'
CHAPTER X
The Messenger
IT WAS CLOSE to midnight, and Westminster Abbey's annexe building was empty apart from a few priests and theology students scurrying about like minnows in a stream. Skirting from one place to the next, the students-known in the sanctum as 'alumno'-were electric with something akin to gossip. There was a murmur on the wind-Bishop Courtney was in residence. Staying within the lush, ornate apartment situated in the west wing of the church away from prying eyes and spying ears, the Bishop was virtually a celebrity, and every one of the students wished to meet the man, him being one of Her Majesty's most trusted advisors.
Behind the varnished oak doors on the top floor of the annexe building, Bishop Courtney scoured through the reams of paperwork upon his cluttered desk. He scooped up a golden goblet with chubby fingers, and poured the contents down his gullet. There was a gentle knock on the door and the golden knob turned slowly, as the door inched open. The Bishop checked the ornamental carriage clock on the vast fireplace and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A young student priest was stood pensively in the doorway.
'Yes, what is it, alumno?' snapped Bishop Courtney, turning his portly mass around to face the door. 'I thought I ordered not to be disturbed!'
'Sorry, your Grace, but a Reverend Fox is in the reception hall requesting an audience with you. Shall I permit him entrance?' the young priest asked, cowering as if he were pleading for his life.
'Reverend Fox?' asked the Bishop. He scowled into his goblet of wine curiously, and then his eyes suddenly sparked wide open, as if he had just been startled by gunfire. 'Ah! Reverend Fox, you say? Well, by all means, show him in, boy.'
'Very good, my Lord,' said the alumno, bowing his head.
A few moments later, a tall, thin man dressed in black priestly robes and a white dog collar entered the residence, and closed the door firmly behind him.
'Evening, Bishop,' snapped a heavily disguised Mr Reynolds. As well as bogus priestly garb, the man also wore a wicked grin across his gaunt face. 'Burning the midnight oil, I see?'
Bishop Courtney didn't bat an eyelid. 'I thought I told you that you were only to use the Fox identity if there was an emergency, Mr Reynolds. So what news is about to ruin my night?' he asked, nervously twisting his large ruby ring around his finger.
'You're more right than you know, Bishop.' Mr Reynolds's face stiffened, as he approached the large fireplace. 'Not long ago I received a message from my eyes and ears in Crawditch. It seems that Arthur Peach, the landlord of The Black Sheep, has recently received a visit from Cornelius Quaint.'
The Bishop raised an eyebrow. 'Quaint? The conjuror you mentioned?' he said. 'And so what? I don't expect to be disturbed for trivialities, man. You came all the way to Westminster just to tell me that?'
'Not just that, Bishop.' He strode briskly over to the Bishop, his hands held loosely behind his back. 'It seems Quaint put the frighteners on Peach, and he spilled his guts. Now he knows about Hawkspear, and he knows about the whisky! He knows it was drugged. Plus, he's been hanging around the police station, trying to see his employee…the one incarcerated for the murders.'
'Once again, Mr Reynolds, I find myself asking how this affects me? Do you really think that I pay you to be involved in petty details? This man Quaint doesn't know of your involvement in this, does he? Or my own? Then I fail to see how this can be connected to my office and, as such-I don't care a whit about it. This is your plan, remember? Perhaps you should choose your men more carefully in future.'
Reynolds gripped the back of Courtney's chair, his face tense. 'Quaint is no fool. I told you, I have history with him. I know the way he thinks.'
'Unless I am missing something, this man is a mere circus magician, is he not? An old has-been entertainer who now runs a circus? He's hardly a threat, Reynolds. I mean, it's not like he can read minds, is it?'
'Actually, some folk say he can,' said Reynolds grimly. 'He's a terrier, Bishop
-once he gets a whiff of something, he'll not rest until he digs out the answers-and with his circus strongman involved to boot, it's practically lit a fuse right under him! We need to be on our guard, my Lord.' The slender man paused, mulling over his next sentence carefully. 'I think we should call off Hawk-spear for a bit…let things simmer down.'
'Absolutely not!' The Bishop's temper rose swiftly. 'Mr Reynolds, may I remind you that Mr Hawkspear is on lease from Blackstaff prison to perform a service for me, and that service is to scare the wits out of everyone who lives in that flea-pit of a borough. You're just letting your nerves get the better of you, that's all. The plan will continue as we agreed-no deviation! So far we only have three corpses on the streets, not nearly enough to send a clear-cut message to those people, and certainly not enough to make them pack up and leave town. Do not forget, I need that district cleared of its inhabitants within the week, Mr Reynolds-or need I remind you of my schedule?'
'What? You think we should just carry on, and hope that Quaint doesn't get wind of our plan? You want me to be continually looking over my shoulder, do you, hoping Quaint's not stood there? That's taking a lot of unnecessary risks, Bishop.'
The Bishop buried his head in his hands. 'All right…let me think. This man you speak of…this Cornelius Quaint chap…if he really is as dangerous as you say, perhaps we can arrange for a little…accident to befall him.' The greasy skin of the Bishop's face caught a glint from the fireplace, as he leaned forward in his chair. 'Get some men together, some good, reliable men lacking in morals and with questionable consciences. Pay them whatever it takes, and see to it that Mr Quaint finds himself in their company.'
CHAPTER XI
The Day After the Night Before
SERGEANT HORACE BERRY was seated at his desk in Crawditch police station, idly tapping his knuckles with a pencil. He looked over at the clock on the wall and rolled his eyes in horror. Hearing the station's main doors burst open; Berry was about to stand and get a better look at who had entered, when a bellowing Scottish voice drifted over the tops of the desk partitions. Berry knew instantly that Commissioner Dray had arrived. Considering that it was gone midnight, and now encroaching the early hours of the morning, he would surely be in a ridiculously foul mood-not that the time of day seemed to have any impact on Dray's demeanour. He was just as reliably grouchy in the morning as he was at midday or during nightfall. It was a permanent state for the man.
'Over here, Commissioner,' Berry called, raising his hand in the air.
'I got your summons, Horace, and here I am. It's far too early in the day for all this nonsense, man. Mrs Dray was fast asleep-and you know how much I cherish the moments when that woman keeps her mouth shut! Night-time is the only respite I get from her incessant whining,' Commissioner Dray barked, as he stormed through the empty station office towards a large oak door. 'My office, Horace, and be quick about it, will you?'
Commissioner Dray was soon seated in his high-backed chair in his office. His desk was neat and tidy, with towers of paperwork placed into piles in order of importance. A misty sepia-toned photograph of his wife was placed next to an ornate glass statue of a prancing stag. It wasn't clear which was a symbol of a memorable hunt, and which was just a trophy to be proud of-but Sergeant Berry guessed Mrs Dray didn't fall into either category. The Commissioner was a heavy-set man with large, wide shoulders, a broad neck and podgy, chilblained cheeks. His grey-white hair was rapidly dissipating; a fact that he seemed entirely conscious of, as thin spidery strands were swept across his forehead in a vain attempt to disguise its thinning. Dray chewed at the inside of his cheek distractedly, as he rubbed his hands up and down his arms.
'Christ, it's cold tonight. Freeze the balls off a brass monkey out there, man!' The Commissioner opened his drawer and pulled out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He placed one next to him and the other on the far side of the desk. 'You want a wee dram, Horace? It'll get the blood flowing, so it will.'
Berry shook his head. 'Not whilst I'm on duty, sir.'
Dray laughed. 'Forget about that, Berry-especially whilst you're on bloody duty!' Dray poured two fingers of whisky into both glasses anyway, despite Berry's protestations. 'Now, what the devil is so important that you send Constable Marsh round to knock me up at one in the morning, eh?' he said with his usual blistering tones.
Berry had known Dray for many years, but still, the man's bombast made his heart miss a beat. 'Commissioner, if I had any choice, I wouldn't have bothered you.'
'Well, I'm here now, Horace, so you may as well spit it out, eh?' Dray said, relaxing his grim face a little, and leaning back in his chair.
'As you might have guessed, sir-it's bad news,' Berry said, removing a piece of paper from his uniform's breast pocket. It was the same crumpled note that he had found near Twinkle's body. 'There was another murder last night. Jennings and myself were called to the outskirts of Crawditch at first light this morning. The victim looked as if she'd fallen foul of the same bloke responsible for the previous two murders in town. At first…' Berry paused to gain Dray's full attention, 'The thing is, Commissioner…we found a man unconscious next to the latest girl at the scene, seemingly worse the wear for drink. You would naturally assume that all the evidence points to him being the perpetrator of not just that young lady's murder, but the other two, as well, wouldn't you? '
'I would hope so.' Dray slurped his whisky noisily. 'Horace, please don't tell me you dragged me out of bed for this. If you've caught the bloke responsible, well done! Slap the irons on him, and we'll measure his neck for the gallows. Can I not just read your report once it's filed?'
'Well, sir, there are a few…variables we should consider.'
Dray squinted. 'Variables? What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?'
'This latest victim was a dwarf, sir…and the man in custody is a hell of a size, and both are apparently part of a circus crew that's settled over in Hyde Park. Constable Marsh tells me the owner of the circus has already been here early this morning, trying to see his friend, convinced that he was innocent.'
'Aye, and how many times have we heard that, eh?' Dray said.
'Indeed. The suspect is still down in the cells at the moment. I know you weren't due in until later…but I don't think we can afford to sit on this for long.'
'Oh, and why's that?' asked Dray. 'Don't mince your words, Horace; I've known you too long. If you're onto something, then let me in on it! What the hell's got you so bothered?'
Berry rubbed a hand over his forehead, and slid it over his hair. 'These murders have been like a bolt from the blue to the folks round here, Commissioner, and if this gets out, God knows what could happen.'
'Berry, calm down. What are you on about? If what gets out?'
Sergeant Berry toyed anxiously with his earlobe. 'That's the reason why I called you in, sir. Just like the others, this poor girl wasn't just killed; she was mutilated horrifically in a most ungodly manner. Once you see the state of her…you'll understand what's got me bothered.'
'We've both seen murder before, Berry; nothing shocks me about that any more.'
'You might change your mind once you've seen her, sir. I think we've got a real mess on our hands here, and I don't have the slightest clue how we're going to deal with it.' Berry leaned forwards, pressing his hands flat onto Dray's desk. 'Something tells me we're going to see a hell of a lot more bodies turning up.'
CHAPTER XII
The Thicker Plot
CORNELIUS QUAINT WAS sitting in near darkness in his office, the only glimmer of light provided by a single candle positioned on the cluttered table in front of him. Piles of paperwork were stacked up high on his desk awaiting his inspection, but he ignored them this night. His mind was simply not on the job. Admittedly, the circus finances were no fun at all, and there was never a good time to bury one's head amongst figures and sums, but he had at least hoped they would serve as some kind of distraction. Instead they were nothing more than one more thing to put off and do tomorrow. T
he very thoughts he was trying hard not to entertain remained stubbornly present at the forefront of his mind. The shutters over his carriage windows were down, and an eerie silence had taken hold within the room. It was rapidly approaching two in the morning, and Quaint's burst of energy from the night's adventure at The Black Sheep had subsided, giving way to beleaguered tiredness. As much as he hated to admit it to anyone-least of all himself-he was not a young man any more. He rubbed at the third finger on his left hand and stared into the flickering light of the candle, allowing the golden-amber flame to hypnotise him. He rubbed at his eyes, stifling a yawn. Quaint barely even noticed the gentle knock on his office door before Madame Destine stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with a hot pot of tea and two cups upon it.
'I thought you would still be awake, my sweet.' Destine pushed a stack of papers to one side and placed the tray on the corner of Quaint's desk. 'You do realise that pile won't get any smaller the longer it is left, you know. Unless you are trying to perfect a new magic trick to make all the bills disappear.'
'I think that I would have better luck trying to turn water into wine, Madame,' Quaint said with a wan smile.
Madame Destine seated herself in a wooden chair opposite him, raised her veil and looked at Quaint intently, her eyes taking in every minute detail of his worn face. She leaned forward to pour tea into his cup, never once removing her gaze from him. After a long pause, she spoke: 'Is there something on your mind, mon cheri?'
'No, Madame. Why do you ask?'
She blew gently into her teacup as wisps of steam floated to the ceiling. 'For three reasons; because I know you better than you know yourself, because you cannot hide anything from me, and because I know what the date is today.'
Quaint froze, the teacup suspended in mid-air, inches from his mouth. A hollow silence was borne between them. For a painfully long moment, he tried his best to avoid eye contact with the Frenchwoman, but he knew he couldn't resist a glance eventually. More than that, Destine knew it too, and when he finally looked up from the tea, her blue-grey eyes were already beseeching him for the truth.
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